


Break the Ice

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-05 13:09:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15864270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: “Tatsuya,” Shuuzou repeats. “I’m Shuuzou.”“I know who you are.”





	Break the Ice

**Author's Note:**

> happy 9/4 nijihimu

Shuuzou can’t say what makes him turn his head and look back toward the bar. He’s counted all the rookies, scattered across the dance floor and shimmying to the too-loud European techno that for some godforsaken reason they all love (at least it’s not country, he supposes); the overpriced watered-down whiskey and soda hasn’t left his hand. He can feel his wallet and his phone buried deep in his pockets; he’s got everything. He turns, anyway, and stops. Sitting near the end of the bar is one of the prettiest guys Shuuzou’s ever seen.

He’s a sucker for a pretty face; he always has been—models, singers in boy bands, the guys on Grindr who pose with the right filters and alluring looks on their made-up faces. Shuuzou’s never seen this guy before, and he could be anybody, but he’s already somebody. Asian, about his age, bangs over one eye that somehow looks the inverse of circa-2007 Pete Wentz. The eye that looks out is framed by gorgeous lashes, visible from Shuuzou’s position in the dim light, and the slope of his nose and slight pout of his lips—fuck. Shuuzou’s threshold for alcohol is shit, but this isn’t enough to excuse even his staring. The guy’s looking back at him now, a smile playing across his lips.

This isn’t a gay club. Shuuzou’s not A-List famous (and probably less recognizable than some D-list reality star or radio DJ in Manhattan) but he’s still someone. The guy takes a sip of his drink, still looking straight into Shuuzou’s eyes. It’s a challenge. Shuuzou’s competitive, too, and the guy’s too pretty for Shuuzou to turn away.

He slides into the open seat next to the guy and clears his throat. “Come here often?”

He smiles, in an amused sort of way; Shuuzou bites back a frown at his own ineptitude. At least the guy hasn’t gotten up or ignored him.

“You use that line a lot?”

Shuuzou shakes his head. If he were more self-deprecating, he’d ask if it looks like he tries to pick anyone up, like, ever, but even he knows that’s not attractive.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure,” says the guy, and he manages to flag down the bartender from the netherworld a second later. “Another rum and Coke. And?”

“Whiskey soda. Gimme a sec.”

Shuuzou fumbles in his pocket for longer than it should take, finally extracting a twenty and a ten. The bartender whisks off with their glasses.

“I didn’t catch your name?” says Shuuzou.

“Tatsuya,” says the other guy.

“Tatsuya,” Shuuzou repeats. “I’m Shuuzou.”

“I know who you are,” says Tatsuya.

Oh. Shuuzou looks back at Tatsuya; Tatsuya’s gaze is even, as it had been from across the room. He doesn’t pull out a phone to make a social media post, or take a picture of Shuuzou’s dumbstruck look.

“….Do you want an autograph?” Shuuzou manages.

“I didn’t say I was a fan of yours,” says Tatsuya, coy smirk twitching on his lips.

“You’d better not be a fuckin’ Rangers fan.”

Tatsuya mocks an offended look. “Come on, I’m too polite.”

Shuuzou laughs. “True enough. The fact that you didn’t greet me with a punch and told me to stay out of your city or some shit should have been a dead giveaway. But, hindsight I guess.”

Shuuzou pauses, and the bartender returns with their fresh drinks. Tatsuya picks his up but tilts it toward Shuuzou.

“Toast?”

“To?”

“I don’t know,” says Tatsuya. “You tell me.”

Shuuzou’s not going to say something cheesy like them, or tonight, but he can’t think of anything better.

“Your name on the Cup,” says Tatsuya.

Shuuzou bumps his glass against Tatsuya’s and takes a drink. It’s stronger this time.

“Thought you said you weren’t a fan of mine.”

“I didn’t say that,” says Tatsuya. “I’m a Devils fan, but you’re not my favorite player.”

“What do I have to do to be your favorite? Buy you another drink?”

Tatsuya tilts his head, seeming to consider his options. His fingers brush against Shuuzou's knee under the bar.

“I was thinking of something else, but…”

“Go on,” says Shuuzou.

“I don’t live too far from here,” says Tatsuya. “I can get us a cab.”

Shuuzou starts to nod, but jerks his head back halfway through. Fuck. The kids, still on the dance floor, probably more inebriated. He sighs.

“I’m here with a bunch of rookies. Make sure they don’t get mugged or lost or both.”

“Can they do without you? Kids have rideshares and GPS and shit now.”

It’s true; the kids haven’t really needed him, but Shuuzou’s always afraid that the one time he leaves early is the one time they’ll actually get into a bad situation. But—they’re all legally adults. They do have rideshares, and some of them even understand public transportation, and they have each other. How long’s it been since he got laid? How long is he going to be kicking himself for letting this opportunity pass him by? He chugs down half his drink; it burns his throat.

“Meet me outside?”

Tatsuya smiles and squeezes his knee. “Take however long you need.”

He locates the kids quickly; they’re all still dancing relatively close to one another and they seem to have most of their bearings about them.

“I’m getting out early,” Shuuzou shouts (the music seems to be getting louder, hitting the deepest part of his ears; the kids don’t look anywhere near about to quit—Shuuzou wasn’t like that at their age, he doesn’t think; most of his stamina was reserved for hockey).

“Don’t stay up too late, old man,” one of the kids shout back.

“Ha fucking ha,” says Shuuzou. “Don’t do anything too stupid, and text me when you get back.”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

Shuuzou rolls his eyes at them and heads for the door. They’ll be okay. They’re rookies, but they’ve been out before this year, and in the A or in their junior leagues. Tatsuya’s right; kids these days have rideshares and GPS and a hell of a lot more that wasn’t there or, at least, not quite as ubiquitous, when Shuuzou was a rookie in LA.

How old is Tatsuya, anyway? Shuuzou’s not going to come out and ask that, but Tatsuya knows enough about him already, or how to find it on the internet, anyway—age, birthday, height, weight, college, place of birth. Shuuzou doesn’t need to know all of that about a hookup, but his hookup knowing that about him without the reverse feels—weird. At least Tatsuya didn’t lie about knowing who he was and then ask him even though he’d already known.

Tatsuya’s waiting outside, talking to a cab driver through the front window. He motions for Shuuzou to come over and opens the door for him. The driver takes off as soon as Tatsuya closes the door behind him; he must have already told the driver his address. Tatsuya’s hand is palm-up on the middle seat, fingers slightly curled, and it’s a battle for Shuuzou’s tipsy brain not to go to inappropriate places, even if Tatsuya had said he didn’t live far. The driver stops at a light.

“So what do you do?” says Shuuzou.

Tatsuya pauses for a second. “I play basketball.”

Oh. Shuuzou’s about to blurt out that Tatsuya’s not that tall, but—what are the local teams? The Knicks and isn’t there another one? Or is he in college? He can’t be that young.

“For…”

“The Knicks.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“This corner okay?” says the driver.

“Halfway down the block,” says Tatsuya. “Yeah, keep going- past that pickup—yeah.”

He digs into his wallet for a handful of bills and hands them to the driver as Shuuzou gets out; he offers his hand to pull Tatsuya out and Tatsuya takes it. His grip is strong and firm, but his hand is impossibly soft. Tatsuya shuts the door; the cab drives off; Shuuzou still hasn’t let go. Tatsuya steps forward, almost flush against Shuuzou.

“You really want me, huh?”

“I’m not interested in dragging it out too much further,” says Shuuzou, and then he kisses Tatsuya.

Tatsuya’s lips are soft, too; he leans into the kiss, his nose brushing against Shuuzou’s. His tongue scrapes against Shuuzou’s front teeth, exploring the contours like he wants to get to know the inside of Shuuzou’s mouth, like he wants every square centimeter. He pulls back, and in a rush Shuuzou remembers that he hasn’t been breathing. He hasn’t even felt it, but he’s now breathing hard, and God, he wants Tatsuya. He’s wanted him since seeing him; he’s wanted him sitting a foot or two away in the cab, but this isn’t latent, something that would be nice, food for his thoughts to look at behind the glass display of a bakery.

Tatsuya pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and leads them toward a squat tenement. Knowing Manhattan prices it probably costs a fucking fortune, but the inside is nicer than the facade would reveal. The elevator is small, but the ride to the top floor isn’t long enough to start really making out. Shuuzou catches a messy pile of basketball sneakers in Tatsuya’s entranceway as he kicks off his own shoes; Tatsuya leads him down the hallway and past what looks like a framed poster and a cluttered end table, a living room with newspapers stacked high on the table, and then into his bedroom. The lights are off but there’s enough to see with the glow of the face of his clock, the streetlights outside the half-open venetian blinds, and the soft glows and pulses of various charging electronics. The setup is kind of cute, a little more disheveled than Tatsuya’s facade would reveal, but Shuuzou’s read too many of his mother’s pop psych books to believe what they say about how the contents of your bedroom reveal your true personality and priorities.

He stops thinking about that kind of bullshit when Tatsuya kisses him again.

* * *

Shuuzou takes a midmorning train back to Jersey; it’s empty, plenty of room to stretch out on a three-person seat and set his extra-large iced coffee down next to him while he scrolls through his texts. The kids all got back okay; his brother wants a ticket for when the Devils are in LA. Shuuzou hadn’t gotten Tatsuya’s number before he’d left, only a second round of sex and a shower and half a cup of coffee before Tatsuya had said he’d had morning practice to go to.

Last night was good, but this morning, sleepy and sober, had been so much better, Tatsuya’s fingers scraping Shuuzou’s thighs, the way he’d sucked on Shuuzou’s bottom lip. Shuuzou raises his phone so he can see his reflection in the screen. It still looks a little swollen. It’ll be gone soon.

He types “tatsuya knicks” into Google; the first result is his Wikipedia entry. Shuuzou clicks on it; that’s definitely him in the picture. First-round draft pick out of USC, born in Tokyo, a few years younger than Shuuzou—and he’d moved to LA as a kid around the same time Shuuzou had. Logged the most minutes in the NBA last year, a description of his play style that Shuuzou skips over.

The second result is Tatsuya’s twitter; he hasn’t tweeted anything in a few days but apparently he’s already following Shuuzou (he’s not even following three hundred accounts; that feels more than a little validating). Shuuzou follows him back, and then shoves his phone back into his pocket. They’re already at Secaucus; his stop’s next and he’s got practice in the afternoon. But maybe he’ll watch the Knicks game tonight.


End file.
